


Running Late

by tisfan



Series: MCU Drabbles [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint saves the day, Coulson is an idiot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9480440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan





	

**Running Late**

Clint raced up the fire-escape, feet barely making a sound as he skipped three and four steps at a time. He flicked his quiver around to slot the shaft into a grappling line arrowhead, spun and fired, gaining six floors.

Clint didn’t pray, but if he could, he would have been. _Don’t let me be late, not this time, please not this time._

Whirled, fired another line and he’d made the top of the building. He’d been contacted anonymously, a woman he’d never seen before had asked him for help, said she was badly wounded, that Phil had been taken, and they didn’t have anyone in reserve. The only ones left that could act without oversight were the renegades, who’d taken refuge in Wakanda.

It had taken some fast fucking talking to get T’challa to let Clint go at all; and he was allowed to understand that there would be no coming back from this. T’challa had given Steve Rogers and his exiles sanctuary. If Clint chose to throw it away…

But how could he not? It was Phil Coulson.

Clint slid into the curved piping of the building’s air duct system, screwdriver already out to loosen the panel inside. He was in; the wounded woman was talking in his ear. She’d given him the codename Quake. “Okay, the security should be down in a few, wait… and go.” She was working furiously on her laptop while in the hospital, bones shattered from too much use of her power.

Clint scaled down the inside of the building, three floors, four, five. He pressed his ear to the duct’s walling, listening for a sound. A familiar rumble of voice carried to him.

“Senator Nadeer,” Phil said, “I don’t know how you can imagine this won’t go south for you.” Clint didn’t care what Nadeer had to say, he was crawling as fast as possible. Whatever the bitch was talking about, it would be her final words.

Three in the room. Watchdogs, Clint’s contact had called them. Didn’t matter for them, either. They wouldn’t be part of a group for much longer. He didn’t see the Senator, but there was a computer. Voice call. Clint lined up the shots, calculating. He gently unscrewed the panel. He threw the panel and as soon as they turned, Clint’s bow was up, arrows zipping through the air.

Clint didn’t even check the bodies. There was no need. He drew a knife. Walked over to where Phil was tied to the chair.

“I can’t decide if I should cut you loose, or stab you to death, you son of a bitch,” Clint snarled.

“How ‘bout you kiss me,” Phil suggested, “before you decide.”

The kiss… the kiss was like coming home. Clint lost himself in the tender sweetness of Phil’s mouth, the salt and whiskey taste of his tongue, the eager slide of lip. _Thank you, thank you, thank you. Not late, not this time._

“Good to see you, sir,” Clint said, as he drew back.


End file.
